


the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity

by farfetched



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfetched/pseuds/farfetched
Summary: Nursey has bad days, sometimes. This is one. He'll get through, but it's never all that easy.





	the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity

He understands about silence being thick. Heavy. Cloying. 

It sticks to him, drags him down. Closes his mouth, closes his throat, shuts off everything, makes him into a black hole of sound, because nothing he could ever say to fill the gap feels good enough, poetic enough, witty enough, him enough, so he just doesn't. 

Things go on around him but he just. Lets it go. Doesn't participate. Watches, spirals downwards in his thoughts, just wants to sleep because sleep is release from all he is, and a chance at a new tomorrow. Sleep means not having to fight off the ever pervading thoughts, the what if- and wouldn't it be- thoughts that always pop up in his mind, awful and intrusive and no. 

He can't. 

So he wants to sleep. 

He can't, of course. He has classes and hockey, both of which matter to him, he can't fall behind on either, but equally, his heart is in neither today. 

'_The heaviness in his heart belongs to gravity_' 

And it pulls, and it pulls. Makes his legs feel like lead, every exercise is ten times as difficult. But then he gets angry at his utter lethargy, tells himself it's not good enough, and tries harder, even though it feels like it carves into his very life core to do so. 

And worse, because he normally smiles so easily, they expect it of him. 

But they feel fake on his lips, and he's so aware when normally he's not, and they slide off his face as soon as they can, he can't hold onto them. They feel oppressive and false, a lie in silence. 

He tries to avoid people as much as possible on days like this. The less chance people get to observe, the less chance of then thinking something is wrong. He doesn't want them changing their minds about him, rethinking him. He doesn't want them to think. He wants to just be, and just be left alone to his devices. If he admitted to the thoughts that spear through his mind sometimes, they would not leave him alone. They don't understand. So he can't tell them. 

That sometimes, it's all he can do to just breathe. To stay alive. 

Why would they understand? He barely does. How can breathing, something so natural, so automatic and just _there_, become difficult? How can it feel like such an effort to draw air into his lungs, like there is a weight on him? How can he pause before breath and wonder if this is his last, and wonder if he just doesn't breath, what would happen. 

He's tried it, before. Late at night with so many thoughts around his head, attracted by the lack of sleep, he tried just not breathing. 

It gets painful. But physical pain he can deal with. Physical pain is so much better, people understand physical pain, but he doesn't know sometimes how to explain that a broken brain is like a broken bone. It's always there, it takes time to heal, if you don't deal with it right it can never heal and it can get infected and pollute the body and kill you. The simplest of chores become an insurmountable task, everything is difficult, and it's worse, because there is no cast for a brain. There is no rest for six weeks while it heals. It doesn't heal. It just drags and drags, and he's tried, dammit, he tries so damn hard but there are some days where he just can't stand being him. His skin will itch with the uncomfortable of him being in it, and he can't stand looking in any mirrors, hates the way he looks, hates the bags under his eyes, regrets the tattoo, looks at himself and sees _not good enough_. 

Some days, it's all he can do to breath in the silence. Every breath is a moment longer he's chosen to stay alive, and some days, that feels like a fucking celebration.

**Author's Note:**

> What better than projecting hugely. I'm sorry Nursey.


End file.
